


Time Comes Around

by Toixx_nimpark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Quidditch, Trans Draco Malfoy, minor Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toixx_nimpark/pseuds/Toixx_nimpark
Summary: And maybe, just maybe, it was those memories that triggered the visceral response he had when he saw the white-blond head of hair walk out of the kitchen and toward the eighth years’ table. He stood up from his seat, hands clutching the sides of the table, eyes not leaving the other boy (well, a man now). Hermione gasped and tugged at his sleeve urgently.Malfoy didn’t notice his outburst. He was looking at the ground. His hair was a bit longer than it had been the last time Harry had seen him. Filled out his robes more, though. Reminiscent of when they were younger, both young and spry, treating each other as silly childhood rivals. Harry was struck by how much older he looked.Not a bad older, either. Malfoy’s jaw had sharpened and he looked stronger. Despite all of the glares or grimaces he received from the students around him, there was an air of confidence surrounding him that made Harry’s stomach twist.***Plenty of Hogwarts students have come back for eighth year. Including Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. Tensions rise as they're both placed on the special eighth year Quidditch team and they learn to understand one another and, ultimately, acceptance.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley (minor)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 260
Collections: HP TransFest 2020





	Time Comes Around

Blaise was giving him that face again. The face that said, _you’re not really doing this, are you?_ Draco huffed and stuffed another folded shirt into his suitcase. They were in Draco’s room in the temporary house he and his mother were living in while the Aurors cleared out their manor of Dark Magic and other souvenirs the Death Eaters may have left behind. It was an alright little house, right in the middle of two other houses in Tinworth. Living there, among Muggles, wouldn’t be quite that bad, Draco’s come to know, if it weren’t for those damn Cornwallish Pixies. 

“I know what you’re going to say—”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Draco.” 

“—and I don’t want to hear it.” He sent Blaise a polite smile. “I _am_ going back to Hogwarts. I _am_ going to pass my N.E.W.T.s and _then_ I will never look back at the place.” 

Blaise rolled his eyes, falling backward onto Draco’s bed and narrowly avoiding the sharp corner of his suitcase. “I didn’t say anything.” 

Draco pressed his hand against the dragonhide leather of his case. “I know. I’ve just heard it far too much from mother and Pansy. Did you know Goyle sent me a letter asking me to think this over?” 

He felt eyes look over him, top to bottom. “How are you gonna explain the…?” Blaise asked, naturally cutting himself off. He gestured to his chest and Draco felt his face heat up. 

“Nobody noticed when I was younger, Blaise. I don’t think they’ll suddenly start asking now.” 

Despite the teasing from his friends, every time Draco thought about his chest he felt like he could cast a fully corporeal Patronus. The area was still pretty sore but his private Healer assured him he should be able to go back to school. It wasn’t a procedure he ever thought he’d be able to get, especially not when he was a young child. 

What a surprise it was to his mother and father when his face in the family portrait that hung in the main dining hall changed, some odd ten years ago. The long, wavy blond locks were cut like they had been sheared in the painting. And painting-Draco had ripped off his flowy, pale pink robes with all of its ruffles and lace to replace them with decidedly sophisticated, decidedly _masculine_ robes, tailored to resemble his father’s straight-cut, dark greens, and blues, and grays. 

His mother was confused at first, a little heartbroken that her only daughter is now her only son, but she never turned her back on him. Draco’s father was ecstatic to have a son in the family, though he wasn’t assigned male at birth. His father told him of potions and spells he could use to continue on the family bloodline with his future wife. What nonsense that was. Not only did his Healer say that the mix of the fertility potions along with his steady supply of masculinization potions would be a dangerous concoction, but Draco wasn’t the slightest bit interested in women. 

Truly unfortunate for his father, if Draco had any respect left for the man. 

Draco slammed the top of his suitcase down and watched it clip itself shut. He shoved it and it fell off of the bed and onto the wooden floor with a loud _thump_. Blaise patted the spot next to him welcomingly, and he took the opportunity to lay next to him. 

“Just worried for you Draco, that’s all,” Blaise muttered. A stupid-looking grin appeared on his face. “And you’re positive that one of your reasons for going back isn’t that a very special hero will be joining you?” 

“Sod off!” Draco couldn’t help but laugh as he shoved his pillow into one of his best friends’ faces. Sometimes he felt guilty that someone like him, a Death Eater, could still laugh after the War, while good, innocent people could no longer laugh. Because of his actions. Because of his choices. 

Self-hatred wasn’t fitting of a Malfoy. He was going to be the head of the Malfoy house, the oldest surviving male. Not that his mother couldn’t handle the financial burden of the manor, but having that title did always make him grin. 

*

“How was your break, Harry?” Hermione sounded cheerful, sitting so close to Ron the outside of their thighs were pressed together. It’s not like it was particularly small in the train cart. 

“Fine,” he responded. After the war had ended, it took months for the world to get itself together again. For the first three weeks of break, he was living with the Weasley family in their home. He thought it wouldn’t be any different than when he stayed with them for the previous summers, but he was wrong. They were in mourning; Molly would walk around like a ghost, and then he’d hear her sobbing at night, George would leave the Burrow late at night and not come back until the next afternoon, looking exhausted and covered in dirt. Ginny couldn’t look at him. The first time she initiated anything with him, she had to stop, saying, “I can’t get the image of you being dead out of my mind.” She said she didn’t like being the girl left at home, waiting to see if he’d come back to her or if she’d be hearing about his death in the news.

Besides, he had his very own ancestral home to live at, one he inherited from his late Godfather. It still held the ghosts of the Order of the Phoenix, whispers of the members who were no longer living. Harry cleaned up the place. Hermione and Ron visited as often as they could (Hermione brought him a succulent as a housewarming gift) even if all they did was remove the dirt and grime from unused rooms and rearrange the furniture. By the time he was packing up to go back to Hogwarts, the Black family home was almost looking like something of his own. 

The door to the cart swung open, and Luna Lovegood drifted in dreamily. She sat next to Harry and looked up at him with a gentle smile. Her silver eyes betrayed nothing of what was going on in her mind. She looked like she was doing much better than during the War. Her cheeks were filled out more and her light blonde hair held a healthy glow. Harry heard she was dating the grandson of a famous magizoologist. She took a seat beside Harry, turning slightly to face him. 

“Hello, Harry.” Luna looked at Ron and Hermione each and acknowledged them before looking back at Harry. “Have you heard the news?” Her hands were fidgeting with the folds on her skirt. 

He smiled back at her. It felt like the most genuine one in a while. Harry always had a soft spot for Luna, from the moment they met. At first, it may have been out of pity but by now he knows it’s definitely grown into a real friendship. 

“What’s the news?” 

Luna placed her thin hand atop his. “Draco Malfoy is back! It’s been so long since you or I have spoken to him, hasn’t it?” 

Ron’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Malfoy’s gonna be here? Why’s he need to be here, shouldn’t he have hundreds of thousands of Galleons in his family’s vault?” 

“I believe it was his family that donated the most to the reconstruction of Hogwarts,” Hermione said, glaring at her boyfriend. “He can’t be all that bad anymore. Remember, Bill lives in the same town as him, and he says he can’t even recognize him.”

The last time Harry saw Draco Malfoy was at the Death Eater trials. He’d never been to another courtroom in the Ministry of Magic besides his own hearing, but the structure of the room was very similar. Except he was in the audience that time, and Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius were standing in front of the judge’s towering stand. It was a surreal experience, hearing all of the Malfoy family’s crimes relayed back to them. Having to testify. Harry wouldn’t be able to forget the articles that came out about him being too soft to testify after he spoke in defense of Draco and Narcissa. Lucius, however, was non-negotiable; Arthur Weasley warned him that he would be impossible to defend and it could tarnish the rest of the Malfoy family’s chances. 

Malfoy was thin, thinner than during their sixth year. He was wearing a plain black and white suit. The sleeve covered his left forearm. 

Luna touched his shoulder. “He’s near the front of the train, I heard. Wanna go see him with me?” 

Could he meet with him that early on? Back when they were younger, their first meeting was important. The first conflict of the year, and all that. Harry sunk into the train seat further. 

He faked a cough. “No, I’m alright. Thanks though, Luna.” 

She frowned but nodded. Her skirt swished as she stood up. Her eyes glanced over Ron and Hermione. “I’m glad you guys are together. Ron’s Qubats are finally going away.” 

*

The Great Hall was loud, so much louder than Harry ever remembered. Ron and Hermione were sitting next to him, on his right, and some Hufflepuffs he didn’t know were sitting on his left. There was a smaller table, fitting only about one hundred and fifty students, in front of the professors’ table. If he looked in front of him, Harry could see the four rows of the House tables. The classes looked smaller this year and he wondered how many parents decided to send their children off to other schools, deeming Hogwarts “unsafe.” 

He couldn’t say he blamed them. Durmstrang didn’t get invaded by Death Eaters, and certainly not Ilvermony. (An American wizarding school. Harry didn’t think those even existed, but Hermione loved to prove him wrong. Apparently she had some sort of pen pal that summer from Ilvermony.) 

Countless eyes were on him. And this time it wasn’t just the younger, starstruck first or second years whose wide eyes couldn’t stay off of him. Some of the teachers were sneaking glances at him and whispering to each other. Harry hunched his shoulders self-consciously. 

So many of the teaching positions were open after the Battle of Hogwarts. How did McGonagall manage to fill every single one in only one year? As well as fix up the century-old castle? There was nearly no evidence left of the destruction the school went through, save for the few intentional broken parts of the school left to honor those who died on school grounds. 

Ron and Hermione were staring at him when he focused his attention back to the table. They both wore the same expression. Worried and desperate to see if he was going to be okay. To be honest, Harry was kind of sick of seeing that expression. 

“I’m fine,” he tried to placate their concerns. “It’s just… a lot, being back. Good, but also strange now that we’re not fighting for our lives.” 

The joke didn’t land.

“Harry, are you positive you’ll be alright? You seemed kind of out of it on the train ride here,” Hermione asked imploringly. All summer she’s been trying her damndest to encourage communication. She just didn’t understand how awkward it was to talk about everything; the breaking up with Ginny, the days spent listlessly in his bed staring at the ceiling at Grimmauld Place, the nightmares he got even at the Weasley’s that left him breathless and panicked for hours. 

Ron laughed to ease the tension. “You know I just _love_ when you mother hen, Hermione, but maybe we should let him be for right now? Harry’s a big boy, if something is going on then I’m sure he’ll tell us.” He gave Harry a pointed look. Both of them knew it took a lot for Harry to come to them when he was feeling down. 

But he nodded, albeit rolling his eyes at Ron’s statement. “I swear I’m okay. The ride was long and I am just exhausted from packing.” 

Harry looked over the tables at all the other students so he wouldn’t have to see his best friends’ concern displayed so explicitly on their faces. The new Gryffindors looked promising. A rambunctious pack of eleven-year-olds. He could see their need to prove themselves, coming from the same House as Harry Potter. A large part of him wanted to grab all of them by the front of their shirts and talk to them about why idolizing him wasn’t a good idea. 

On the left were the Slytherins. It’s not as if there were any physical differences between them and the rest of the students, but there was an aura of melancholy. Even in the small first years. That’s not to say they were quiet, not by a long shot. They just didn’t draw much attention to themselves. Harry smiled to himself, remembering how he and Malfoy would scream at each other from across the room about the stupidest things. 

And maybe, just maybe, it was those memories that triggered the visceral response he had when he saw the white-blond head of hair walk out of the kitchen and toward the eighth years’ table. He stood up from his seat, hands clutching the sides of the table, eyes not leaving the other boy (well, a man now). Hermione gasped and tugged at his sleeve urgently. 

Malfoy didn’t notice his outburst. He was looking at the ground. His hair was a bit longer than it had been the last time Harry had seen him. Filled out his robes more, though. Reminiscent of when they were younger, both young and spry, treating each other as silly childhood rivals. Harry was struck by how much _older_ he looked. 

Not a bad older, either. Malfoy’s jaw had sharpened and he looked stronger. Despite all of the glares or grimaces he received from the students around him, there was an air of confidence surrounding him that made Harry’s stomach twist. 

Hermione tugged harder and he finally sat back down. His gaze didn’t leave Malfoy’s form, which had sat down at the very end of the table with the least amount of students and was subtly adding food to his plate. It took him a while to recognize that he was feeling surprised. He couldn’t remember the last time something had truly shocked him. Oh, a symbol of death is following him around? Sounds like a Tuesday. The weird creatures that infested the Weasley’s shed were asking for autographs? How many need a signature? 

He also couldn’t deny the feeling of offense that filled his chest. Never would Malfoy forego an opportunity to antagonize him, especially not at the beginning of the year. Sure, Harry knew he had probably changed a tremendous amount over the summer, but the absence of that nostalgia hit him harder than he’d like to admit. 

In his peripheral hearing, Ron said, “Looks like we know what he’ll be focusing on this year.” 

*

_The rooms could be worse_ , Draco thought as he surveyed the small room. It was smaller than his old Slytherin room, with only two beds sitting across the room from each other. The dormitory for the eight years was a large building right on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. McGonagall said it was only to be used as a dormitory for that year and afterward would be transfigured into a proper home for various of Hagrid’s creatures for his class. Draco couldn’t help but frown at the idea of potentially living in a Hippogriff stable. 

He was nervous about sharing a room with another student. If he were any stupider he would’ve told the Headmistress about his concerns, but he didn’t want her to think him ungrateful for being allowed back into Hogwarts. McGonagall didn’t _hate_ him, but they were never close, not in the slightest. 

His gender was never an issue in Slytherin. He was banned from the girls’ dorms when the corridor leading to the wing of dormitories started closing in on him, just as they would with any other Slytherin male. And Pansy was a close friend from childhood; she knew all about his past and would threaten other Slytherins who had taken issue with it, even as an eleven-year-old. 

None of his roommates cared either. Crabbe and Goyle were, thankfully, too dense to figure out exactly why he was so stingy about bathroom-sharing or why Madame Pomfrey and Snape doted over him every few months. Blaise had asked about it during their second year, wondering why he was always drinking new potions. (They were experimental, meant to stop the impending doom of menstruation his body would force him to endure. Blessedly, he’d never had to experience the occurrence, only hearing secondhand whinging from Pansy every few months starting at the beginning of their third year.) 

Now, though, he would have to go through that all over again with this new roommate. Slytherin or Hufflepuff would probably be the best possible outcomes for his roommate. A Slytherin would pretend not to care about him, which would hurt but he would learn to live with it, and a Hufflepuff would hold the value of tolerance over all others. He could potentially use his gender to force the Hufflepuff to tolerate him, even if they wouldn’t due to his past actions. 

Draco frowned. These rooms wouldn’t be co-ed, would they? That would bring up a whole new set of problems…

The door to the room swung open and he felt himself stiffen up. He wasn’t facing the door, and he decided to keep it that way. Keep his head low, his mouth shut, and just focus on unpacking all of his clothing. His mother and Pansy went shopping in the main shopping center of Tinworth after his procedure, finding a new wardrobe of clothing that would fit properly. Not that his old clothes didn’t, but Draco misjudged the difference it made between having his chest flattened with clothing and having all of the unwanted flesh being transfigured off. 

He heard the door creak closed, but his roommate didn’t walk any closer. Draco couldn’t help but feel judged. 

“Malfoy.” 

_No, no, no, no, no,_ he knew his eyes were widening and his hands gripped the eggshell pale button-up tightly. Was McGonagall pulling his leg? She must’ve mentioned something about (forced) inter-house unity before he entered the Great Hall. Pansy would be protesting outwardly if she was aware of this, but the little Blaise on his shoulder was giving him a sleazy expression. 

Self-hatred wasn’t fitting of a Malfoy, but cowardice was. He had half a mind to just ignore Potter and pretend to be focused on going to sleep. But that wouldn’t work forever. Eventually, Draco would have to make some sort of verbal contact with him. 

He turned his head, hopefully casually, and met his eyes. Fuck. Potter looked like he was doing well, so much better than he was during his family’s trials. He’d put on weight, his shoulders had broadened more, there were sparse hairs on his chin that indicated possible growth of a beard. Draco couldn’t help but admire his masculinity. After being denied his own for so long, not to the fault of anyone around him, he realized he was feeling adequate next to Potter. It was unfamiliar. 

There was still a particularly haunted look in his eyes. Probably plagued by nightmares. Draco could relate. He bet some of those nightmares were caused by him. 

Potter was staring at him with wide eyes. “How are you doing? Is your mother well?” 

So he wanted to play civil? Draco wondered if he still held onto his wand. 

“Fine,” he replied. “Thank you for what you said. For…speaking on behalf of my family.” 

He nodded at him, still looking dumbfounded like he couldn’t register that _the_ Draco Malfoy was in a room with him. Draco rolled his eyes and went back to putting away his clothes. 

There was silence for the better part of the night. He didn’t know where Potter was or why he came to the room later, but he didn’t want to know. Despite the tightness in his chest that longed to follow Potter wherever he went like some sort of dog, Draco wanted a simple, easy year. He knew the material from the bare minimum teaching he got from his seventh year. Absolutely no reason for him to make his life more difficult than it already was by getting involved with the Gryffindor; historically, it’s never helped him out one bit. 

But a question was lying thickly on his mind. It harassed him while he was in bed, staring up at the gray, stone ceiling, his duvet pulled up to his chest. Eventually, he deemed it late enough that if he did ask he most likely wouldn’t get a reply because Potter would be asleep. Draco licked his dry lips. 

“Why did you save me from the Fiendfyre?” 

No response. Draco breathed out the tension in his body in a sigh of relief. He didn’t know what he would do if he heard Potter’s reasoning. 

*

The stares, Draco was expecting. The murmurs, he was expecting. There was nothing about the unwanted attention that he was surprised by. But he was surprised by the heaviness in his gut, the same feeling that plagued him all throughout first year. When he was desperate for his secret to be held safe, for absolutely nobody to find out that he wasn’t assigned male at birth.

It wasn’t as if he had any friends to hide behind this year. No Goyle or Blaise or Pansy to back him up. Sometimes, he would hear the sound of shoes clicking against the stone floor close behind and he would whip around, expecting to see his childhood friends, only to see students he didn’t know. Afterward, they would give him dirty looks or make scathing remarks about his appearance, family, name, status, and everything else under the sun they could think of. Which, in his honest opinion, wasn’t much; he felt he had more creative tactics when bullying Potter when he was eleven. 

Classes went better than he was expecting. None of the professors were explicitly rude or condescending to him but they also wouldn’t cut him any slack. Some teachers even marked him down when he couldn’t get a partner when they required one. Because nobody wanted to be his partner.

Potter was in two of his classes. Draco tried his best to ignore the Gryffindor’s intense eyes on him, ignoring the heat that rose to his skin at the thought of Potter paying any mind to him at all. Where was all that attention for the last seven years? If all Draco had to do was ignore him, he would’ve done that far sooner. 

Blaise was kidding himself if he thought Draco had any chance with the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Potter was most likely still occupying himself with that Weasley girl. A deeper, darker fear struck Draco immensely— if Potter did return his feelings, how would he react if Draco were to tell him. Eventually, if they ever were together, he’d have to tell him. 

He groaned and pushed the thoughts out of his head. 

The Quidditch pitch was surprisingly quiet and made a good study spot. Occasionally, the first years would have their flying practices, but even that background noise was tolerable. And if he just hid near the bases of those tall, magnificent stands for the audience then he went unnoticed by everyone. 

Well, almost everyone. Madame Hooch definitely knew he created a study spot out of what was, essentially, her office. Sometimes he would walk to his usual spot and find a plate with little sandwiches on it and a glass of pumpkin juice. Or a picnic blanket on the ground when it rained, charmed to keep him dry and warm. And in return, he made sure to clean up any mess he made and to help Madame Hooch put away any equipment that was left out. 

It was during one of these study sessions that he overheard Madame Hooch speaking to someone. 

First, he saw her and Headmistress McGonagall walking together, to the center of the pitch. Now that McGonagall wasn’t a professor, he hasn’t had any contact with her. He doesn’t even think he’s heard her voice, save for maybe a general message wishing everyone well at the end of the first feast in the Great Hall. But hearing her voice wasn’t unwelcome; she sounded almost motherly and her dulcet tone made Draco pull his knees close to his chest and just listen. 

“Do you really think it’ll be helpful?” Madame Hooch was asking, her voice appearing a bit like she didn’t truly believe in what McGonagall was saying. 

But McGonagall didn’t waver. “It is under my experiences that these young adults are… traumatized. Having a comforting sense of the past, or just connecting with the rest of the students, may heal some of our students.” 

“So, you want to create… an eighth-year team? Any house, any student?”

Draco’s eyes widened. A Quidditch team? He couldn’t deny the void left by not having a way to play the game this year. Even if he did only start playing because of Potter, he did truly love the sport. Loved how students of any gender were on the same team, loved how everybody was treated the same way, loved how nobody questioned his choice of changing robes privately. And, yes, it was a Slytherin team, so there was quite a bit of cheating he would never admit to if anyone ever asked, but they never treated him like his father bought his place on the team. 

He listened intently. 

Madame Hooch sighed and was a little choked up as she said, “Well, alright then. It makes sense to me. I’ll make an announcement tonight during dinner.” 

Headmistress McGonagall smiled, then looked up at the gray sky. The clouds were tinged a bright, explosive orange where the sun was peeking through them. The brightness would dissolve though, leaving everything cold and gray. A sad autumn indeed. She looked around and Draco held his breath as her eyes passed over his figure, hiding behind the audience stands. But if she did notice him, she didn’t mention it or react to him. 

The two women whispered to each other for a few moments more, then left the pitch to turn back inside the castle. Draco stayed hidden for the next few hours. 

*

“You want me to what?” Harry was standing in front of Headmistress McGonagall’s desk. It was different than Dumbledore’s, made from rich redwood and swirled with marble on the tabletop. There was a cat bed on the corner of the desk, which made him smile a little. 

In fact, the room was different than when Dumbledore was headmaster. Everything was neat and tidy, the furniture all matching and the books organized. Some of the portraits hung up on the walls had thick pieces of cloth draped over them and it reminded Harry of Mrs. Black in Grimmauld Place, whose screams can’t be placated unless she’s covered up. He’d never noticed that when Dumbledore was alive. 

McGonagall’s face was still as stone, her expression never wavering as she repeated herself, “I’m asking you to be the captain for an eighth-year Quidditch team that Madame Hooch and I are starting.” Her hands clasped together right in the middle of her desk. “Now, Mr. Potter, I would never want to force you into doing something you don’t want to do. I completely understand if you would just like to relax and study this year.” 

She paused to sip some of her tea. “Besides, I do have a few captains in mind if you do choose to not be a captain.” 

Harry took a moment to think. He didn’t even think he’d live to hear the word Quidditch again. When he walked into that forest, surrounded by those who loved him who passed on, he couldn’t allow himself to imagine a world in which he won. But now, that’s exactly where Harry was. A world in which he won.

That’s what everyone was asking him. What did he want to do after he got out of Hogwarts? What amazing charitable events and donations would he give? He hated to say it, but the Weasleys and Hermione were the worst offenders when it came to this kind of interrogation. Sometimes they made it hard to breathe. 

McGonagall was waiting patiently for his response. Harry thought back, to the wind blowing through his uniform and hair, to the exhilaration of stealing the Snitch right before hitting the field, to the way that the cheers in the stands were muffled when he was flying so high. There was nothing that could compare to that feeling. 

He smiled, fully this time, and his facial muscles felt weird. “Sure. That would be amazing.” 

*

Draco’s hands were shaking so he shoved them in the pockets of his robes. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to, at the very least, try out for the new Quidditch team. He was a Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake. What would his ancestors say if they saw him now? (They’d probably be screaming at him for disloyalty and being a disgrace to the family name.) 

The walk to the Quidditch pitch was familiar, fairly routine for the majority of this new school year. But instead of moving past the changing rooms and studying under the audience’s seating, he was pressing his back against the brick wall of the changing room. He couldn’t get his legs to move especially because he could hear voices coming from inside. 

He’s good at Quidditch. When he wasn’t playing against bloody Potter, his team would win practically every time. Draco isn’t a _bad_ seeker. He’s just not as good as the Savior of the Wizarding World, which was an unfair standard in general for him to compare himself to. Pansy would be at his neck if she knew he was quivering outside like a Hufflepuff first year. Maybe, this time, he deserved all of her nagging and whinging. 

Forcing his legs to move, Draco entered the changing room. Rowdy laughter and raucous conversation pressed against the tiled walls. No eyes laid upon him, not yet at least, so he wasted not a moment, speeding past the other eighth years and into a stall. Under his breath, he muttered a sticking charm on the curtain so that nobody but him could move it. When he was in Slytherin, everyone knew about his snootiness for privacy, but this was a group he didn’t know. Or, perhaps more accurately, they didn’t know of him. 

Changing out of his school robes and into playing robes was strange, to say the least. He had underestimated how sore his chest would be, even after so many weeks of rest, despite his Private Healer, mother, and closest friends warning him otherwise. The scars left were pretty clean, but a knot formed in his stomach when he imagined how his classmates would react. It would just be another target for them to try and bring him down with. Merlin, how would Potter react? Probably look up at him like a guilt-ridden puppy, mistaking the scars that saved Draco’s life as the ones he nearly killed him with. That would almost be _more_ annoying. 

He was waiting then, listening for the voices to get quieter. It almost sickened him with how hesitant he was to do, well, anything without worrying about what others thought of him. Sometimes he liked thinking back to his third year when he felt like he was on top of the world. Like nothing and nobody could touch him. When he and Potter got into scuffles every other day and he enjoyed it. 

Draco was tired of waiting. He cast a charm to hide his school robes to keep anyone from stealing them and pushed open the curtain. Blessedly, the conversation didn’t immediately die down. Nobody noticed as he kept close to the walls and slunk past bodies in different states of undress. 

The day before was rainy and his boots were sinking in the soft, pliable mud of the field. He’d heard over the summer of a muggle sport called football and watched on the tiny muggle television moving images of men slipping in mud while trying to kick the black and white checkered ball. Watching it made him feel even luckier to be a wizard. A rainy day at Hogwarts was almost ideal; the castle would make its candles and fireplaces warmer and entering the castle after spending the day outside felt like being wrapped up in a handmade woolen blanket and given a steaming mug of hot chocolate. 

It was as if the weather was preparing for the upcoming holidays. Samhain was in just a few weeks. Draco was still surprised he’d survived coming back to Hogwarts again for over a month; he was certain he’d get cursed, expelled, or his mother would just sneak him back home one night while everyone else was asleep. He wouldn’t put it past her. She would probably be sending him a package filled with sweets and tokens of Samhain, as well as an enticing letter pleading for him to quit. Maybe not in so many terms, but Draco knows how to read between the lines. 

He wasn’t the only one on the pitch, wasn’t the only one whose boots were slowly diminishing. The other eighth years were waiting in seven different groups. Madame Hooch was fluttering between all of them, constantly switching the students around, her hands feeling their shoulders and the tops of their heads. Every year, when Draco was on the Slytherin team, she would do this. Madame Hooch was not the type of woman to explain herself, although an older boy named Lucian Bole told him she had a gift for knowing who was supposed to be where. Very rarely back then were students moved to different positions, but Madame Hooch was as busy as a bee for this team. 

Then again, this team would consist of possibly four other houses. There were almost double the number of students that were routinely needed to make up a team. Draco felt rather awkward standing there; he had always been a Seeker, since the first year he started Quidditch. He hoped Madame Hooch wouldn’t find any reason to change his position. 

“Malfoy—” Draco jumped, uneasy by the questioning tone in Potter’s voice. He turned around slowly, already feeling a bit humiliated that he reacted at all to his name being spoken aloud like that. Might as well leave him in a little bit of suspense, he decided. Because of course, Potter would join the Quidditch team. Why wouldn’t he do that? How was he supposed to keep the tinder of his fame bright and burning if he wasn’t constantly doing things that put him in the spotlight? 

Potter was standing there, his Quidditch robes fitted across his chest a bit tighter than in previous years. Ironic, because the chest of Draco’s robes were actually a bit looser than they had been. Beside him was his redheaded sidekick, who was glaring at him almost like he was a gnome digging up his mother’s precious peonies. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Weasley stare at him in such a manner. His memory of his family’s trials was blurry at best, his mind so fully overstimulated and in desperate need to process everything that has happened in the past few years. 

His mouth fell into an easy sneer. “I suppose you’ve come to reclaim your spot, huh?” He bowed. “Well, don’t let scum like me be in your way.” 

Weasley smirked, but Potter rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to reclaim anything, Malfoy. Madame Hooch is going to make us compete fairly for Seeker.” 

“You bet I will, boys!” Madame Hooch clapped Draco’s shoulder and he jolted forward from the impact. She was smiling too widely like she was desperate for them to get along. Draco remembered the conversation she had with McGonagall. He remembered the patient way McGonagall pitched her idea, the smile she gave to the gloomy sky after Madame Hooch agreed. He sighed. He would cooperate for McGonagall and Madame Hooch and only for them. 

Draco looked at Potter, really looked at him. He had intense eyes, always has had them. They looked into your very core and judged you from the inside out. His eyes didn’t glitter or remind him of any specific gem, but they reminded him of river stones when the water was rushing over them. Alive. He envied that quality. 

Unexpectedly, Potter smiled at him. Not fully, but it was definitely a smile. He outstretched his hand and kept it between them, unwavering. Potter never wavered; he was always annoyingly sure of every movement he made. 

“Nice to meet you, Draco Malfoy. My name’s Potter. Harry Potter.” 

He rolled his eyes so hard it hurt the front of his skull. With a mocking note in his voice, he replied: “I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.” And took his hand in his own. 

Their hands slid into one another like a glove. Palm against palm. It was the nicest touch Draco’s gotten since the beginning of the school year. And this was Harry Potter’s hand. Emotions bubbled up inside his chest, threatening to drip down his face and blur his vision, but he shoved them back down. He dropped the handshake first. 

Madame Hooch nodded, pleased at the lack of hostility. “Alright you two, I’ll give you a week to decide who will be the front Seeker and who will be the backup Seeker.” She frowned and squinted. “Weasley! Get into the Keeper group!” 

Draco sighed involuntarily, zoning out as Weasley rushed to join the gaggle of students. Potter didn’t speak to him anymore after Madame Hooch moved on, so they ended up just sitting on the sidelines next to the changing room. Nobody else was deemed a Seeker by Madame Hooch’s standards, so it was just them. 

A spark tingled from his palm all the way up to his fingertips, hours after the fact. 

*

The walk back to the dorm room was… quiet, to say the least. Harry was walking next to Ron. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of the white-blond hair, so white that it practically glowed in the blackness of the night. After everyone was assigned a position Madame Hooch made them run through countless drills in an attempt to whip them back into shape after such a long break. It was a comfort to know she’d be treating the other house teams the same way, though. 

Ron scoffed, his elbow digging into Harry’s arm. 

“Never thought you and the ferret would ever shake hands.” 

Harry shushed him. “He’s right there. He can probably hear you.” 

“Why should it matter? He’s called me worse things.” 

“Let bygones be bygones.”

Despite the words coming from Harry’s mouth, he couldn’t find himself believing in them. _Bygones be bygones_. Can one let something like seven years of antagonism go that easily? He knows it’s what McGonagall is expecting of him; that’s why she roomed them together to begin with. There could be no other reason. A weak, childish part of him wished nothing would change. That Malfoy would wake up one day and hex the shit out of him and he’d hex him back, just like old times. 

The short-term dorm rooms for the eighth years didn’t have a portrait to protect them, but rather two hideous gargoyles set on the left and right of the front door. They were nasty little creatures with mouths like spitfire and their feathers would shed all over the stairway leading to the front door. Now, they were cackling rather loudly at the muddy, exhausted states of all the Quidditch players. 

Ron scowled at one, making an obscenely rude gesture. 

Harry spent a bit of time in the common room to catch up with Hermione. She’d stayed up to write an essay for her Arithmancy class. Ron jumped over the sofa to sit next to her, resting his head on her shoulder in the hopes of catching a few winks, but she protested too much at his sweaty and dirty skin. He laughed at the antics, trying very, very hard to ignore the blond head going up the stairs. 

Malfoy always slept early and woke early. Every time Harry went in to go to sleep, he was already cocooned in the duvet, his body still as can be. And by the time he woke up for breakfast, he was gone. The only evidence that he was in the room was the smell of his distinct posh shampoo permeating their shared bathroom.

The fireplace crackled and popped to his left. It provided a pleasant warmth that erased the wet chill in his bones from practicing and he felt himself unwinding bit by bit with every minute in the presence of the fire. The bright flames licked the sides of the brick fireplace, dancing as erratically as the Weird Sisters. (Ginny tried getting him into their music, to no avail. He just didn’t understand wizarding music. “How is anyone supposed to dance to this?”)

He was still staring deep into the blur of reds and oranges and yellows when he felt the tip of someone’s shoe tapping his shin. Hermione was looking at him with a fretful gleam in her dark brown eyes as he raised his head in the direction of the tapping. In a way, he missed seeing that gleam. It held less pity for the person he’s become, and more about the trouble he was thinking up in his mind. 

Eventually, it was Hermione who lifted Ron up and off of her. She held him steady and looked up at Harry. “I’ll be taking off. He’s fallen asleep twice while I was telling him about my essay.” 

_I don’t think that’s just because of Quidditch practice_. “Alright, ‘Mione. I’ll see you at breakfast.” 

“Please get some sleep, Harry.” She looked insistent. “You may think your glamours are top-notch, but I can still see the tiredness under your eyes. Please.” 

Harry smiled at her. How many other people noticed his lack of sleep? Had Malfoy noticed? Merlin, how embarrassing. 

He waited a few moments after she left the common room before he started up the stairs. The prospect of meeting Malfoy again for the second time that night filled his body with tension. It’s not as if he didn’t want to talk to Malfoy, he just didn’t know what to say. Every time he tried to convince himself to return his wand, he’d wuss out and tell himself he’d do it the next day. 

Harry thought back to earlier that night. When he put out his hand for Malfoy to take. He never intended on doing so; it was like a voice inside of him felt the need for closure. Once he did do it, he was horrified with himself. It would’ve been so easy for Malfoy to take his actions as an insult. 

The touch of Malfoy’s hand in his was like nothing he ever felt before. He almost felt a bit ridiculous admitting that, even to himself, but it’s the truth. There was a magical quality to the touch that was never present when they fought. Sure, there was an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction when they were able to punch each other until their hands grew sore, but this was so different. He couldn’t put his finger on what the difference was, though. Perhaps he should talk about this with Hermione sometime; she should know _something_ about whatever was happening, right? He felt the urge to have them touch hands like that again.

Malfoy’s bed was empty when he reached their shared bedroom. The light was on in their bathroom and he heard the water from the sink. Harry took the break to quickly change into his pajamas, so Malfoy couldn’t see him like that. Well, he supposed, if they were going to be on the same team then they’d probably see each other in half-dressed states quite often. He ignored the heat rising to his face and kept buttoning up his top. 

The door to their bathroom creaked open and out came Malfoy, wearing silk blue pajamas (of course it’s silk) and drinking a hot drink from a mug. Harry frowned. 

“Where’d you get that?” 

He raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry recognized the fatigue encompassing his entire face. “Made it, Potter. How else?” 

“We don’t have anything to make hot chocolate though, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy put his mug down on his bedside table and stretched his limbs. Harry tried not to stare, keeping his gaze focused solely on his face. His shirt lifted slightly to show a sliver of his pale stomach, but Harry didn’t notice that. He gulped thickly. 

“We’re wizards. We have water. I turned the water into hot chocolate.” He sneered at the liquid in the mug. “Doesn’t taste very good, too watery, but it’ll get the job done.” 

Harry stared up at him. “So you’re like Jesus.” 

“Who’s Jesus? Is that a Muggle thing?” 

Coming from a primary school in which Catholicism was just as important as maths, it was strange imagining a world in which people grow up not knowing who Jesus Christ is. Ron and his family had at least heard of him, but that was only due to Arthur Weasley’s love of Muggle traditions and objects. It’s why his family celebrates Christmas, Ron told him. 

But the Malfoys were traditional purebloods, with no interest in Muggle history unless it intertwined with wizarding history. Harry had seen Malfoy working on Muggle Studies essays over the past few weeks, but he supposed he was still unused to Muggle historical figures like that. 

A thought struck him. “Do you celebrate Christmas, Malfoy?” 

He was drinking from his mug again, seemingly in thought. Those striking silver eyes were looking up over the rim of his drink. Then, he said, “My family has never celebrated Christmas. We usually celebrate Yule. Hogwarts was the first time I’ve ever seen any Christmas traditions.” 

_Yule?_ “Like the Yule Ball?” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. It was becoming a familiar gesture to see, Harry being used to sneers and glares. “Yes, Potter. The _Yule_ Ball is based on a holiday that has deep roots in witchcraft, _Yule_. It’s been celebrated by wizards and witches for centuries, but it doesn’t seem to be fairly popular nowadays. None of the seasonal holidays seem to be…” 

He looked downcast as he finished his speech. The way he spoke kind of reminded Harry of Hermione’s lectures. In another world, he thinks they could’ve been great friends. He imagined what it would be like if Muggle holidays, like Christmas, were being forgotten about. If people just decided not to celebrate it anymore, how those who did celebrate it would feel. 

Perhaps he was beginning to understand Malfoy’s stance on traditionalism a bit more. 

Decidedly finished with their civil conversation, Malfoy finished his hot chocolate and crept into his bed. Harry watched him in silence. Watched as his breathing settled and indicated he was finally in deep sleep. He allowed himself to sigh and walked over to put the mug in the bathroom sink to be cleaned later. 

Malfoy’s wand was located in his trunk, hidden at the very bottom in a wand case he got handmade from Ollivander. It was a gift, he said while he gave Luna Lovegood her new wand. It called out for him. Harry often wondered why it was so easy for it to accept him as its wandmaster. When he asked, Ollivander just admitted that it was a very strange occurrence and left it at that. 

Harry fell into his own bed soon afterward. 

*

They didn’t speak about the Seeker position for the first two days, despite plenty of opportunities. They lived in the same room, for Merlin’s sake. They had two classes together and they had Quidditch practice for one hour every day after dinner. Yet neither brought up the issue with their positions nor did they have any other conversations. 

Draco felt strange about their last conversation. At first, he thought Potter was trying to rile him up. Bringing up a Muggle reference in order to make him feel stupid. But it seemed like he genuinely didn’t know about wizarding traditions. In all honesty, he was raised with arguments supporting traditionalism that he could’ve rolled off his tongue to Potter in an instant. 

He found it disturbing how Hogwarts had a Muggle Studies class dedicated to teaching witches and wizards their traditions whilst a majority of students didn’t even know of the origins of their own holidays. 

A letter from Mother interrupted one of his breakfasts, sent with a small box of Swiss chocolates. (Although she mentioned they were crafted in France, so he’ll take what he can get.) The majority was just business talk of the financial state his family’s vault was in. They now had a third of their wealth, with the rest of it being sent to restoration facilities and other charities in order to make some amends for the damage that was done by his family. The Aurors were almost finished with their investigation of the manor, so they’d probably be moving back in by winter break. 

Anxiety clouded his mind when he thought of going back to the manor. How was he supposed to walk those halls, knowing of the stains of curses that took lives were embedded in the very floor and walls? How was he supposed to enter his bedroom, a childhood bedroom, that’s been raided and threatened and then treated like a crime scene? His mother may be willing to embrace the past, but he didn’t know if he could face that properly. 

Potter ended up cornering him outside of a changing stall after Quidditch practice. 

“We need to talk about being Seekers,” he said bluntly. At least this time Draco knew he wouldn’t try to surprise him with any strange Muggle references. He was still holding his Quidditch robes against his chest, subconsciously covering it. When he noticed this, he flushed and dropped his arms. No reason why he should be covering that. Not anymore, at least.

If Potter noticed this, he didn’t say so. Just stared at him. 

“Well, let’s talk,” Draco agreed. “We could stop by the kitchens and get some real hot chocolate, if that would help.” 

Potter laughed, and he felt his chest ache. Oh, if only Blaise could see him now. He’d surely be laughing at his misfortunes. Laughing, while providing no help whatsoever. Draco offered a small smile, and both of them walked off toward the kitchens. 

Weasley was going the opposite way, talking to another student (probably a Gryffindor). “Why isn’t your sidekick tagging along?” 

“He’s not my sidekick, Malfoy.” Draco didn’t need to look at his face to know he had probably rolled his eyes. “And he would rather spend time with his girlfriend than watch us bicker.” 

Draco’s eyebrows raised. “He really is dating Granger, then? I’d heard they’d gotten close, but I didn’t think they were actually dating.” 

Potter seemed to be deciding whether or not to take offense to that on his best friends’ behalf, but Draco wasn’t going to wait. He pushed open the hefty doors of the kitchen and sighed in bliss at the warmth of the room. 

Few House Elves were there this late at night. They cowered at the sight of Draco, but relaxed when Potter followed close behind him. He tried very hard not to take offense to that. He knows his family doesn’t have a great track record with House Elves, but it’s not like he was especially dastardly to them. They even looked between them as if Draco must’ve bewitched Potter to get him to be in the same room as him. _Well, the joke’s on them._

Draco set up two mugs and then got a pot on the stove. Household spells came naturally to him, having been surrounded by them all his life. His mother used to grow frustrated when he constantly asked her for things until she taught him the spells herself. It was so much simpler using magic. All he had to do was utter a small incantation, and the ingredients figured themselves out. Usually, he would use his wand to stir the hot chocolate, but he supposed a wooden spoon would do the trick. 

Potter sat at a round, small table, probably made with the House Elves in mind and not the students. He sat across from him. 

“So,” Draco began, then cleared his throat. “Since you’re already the captain of the team, I think I should be the front Seeker.” 

Potter was staring at his face but snapped back to alertness at his words. He frowned. “What do you mean by that? Wouldn’t it be odd if the captain didn’t play any position for the most part?”

“You’re already the Saviour of the Wizarding World, I don’t think anyone would mind much.” 

“Don’t call me that Malfoy.” 

He seemed insistent on that last point. Aggravated, almost. Draco’s chest burst in satisfaction. He liked knowing that he could still get under Potter’s skin, could still get him pissed off. 

“What? Are you embarrassed or something?” He scoffed. “I would’ve loved to be fawned over by the general public like you are.” 

Potter leaned back in the chair, arms over his chest defensively. “I bet you would, Princess Malfoy.” Draco froze at the nickname. _Did he know? How did he find out? Has he told anyone?_ Potter was unaware of his internal distress, because he continued, “I’m sure you’d be on the field plenty. I kind of have a penchant for getting injured during Quidditch.” 

Shaking himself out of his anxieties, Draco muttered, “Everyone will just think I cursed you so I could be playing sooner.” 

“Would you do that?” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that? What could I possibly gain from making everyone hate me more for touching their precious Potter, as well as encouraging the Aurors to put me under probation or something? I bet they’re already aching to do so, I wouldn’t give them a reason.” 

Potter looked away. “I didn’t think you cared about what other people think.” 

“Maybe, in another time, I wouldn’t. But I care about what my mother thinks, and she’s the one I’d hurt the most by being so careless as to get in trouble with Aurors.”

There was silence and they simply stared at each other. Iron-hot mugs of hot chocolate levitated over to them and settled down on the table. Draco took the much-wanted excuse to break his gaze and drink from the chocolatey liquid. _So_ much better when it’s handmade, like this. Transfiguring water into a different drink will never be as good. Potter took a few moments before drinking from his own mug. 

The House Elves looked a little put off at not being asked to make the hot chocolate themselves. Draco would never understand Granger’s stance on them. They want, no _desire_ , to serve wizards. Why would anyone want to take that away from them? 

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the time in which they finished their drinks. For a long while, Draco assumed that would be the end of it, and maybe the next day they’d pick the conversation back up and bicker some more. Now, he was quite glad Weasley wasn’t there. He’d probably disturb the silence by taking jabs at Draco that he couldn’t reciprocate. 

Even on the way back to the eighth year dormitories, they were quiet. Potter looked to be in deep concentration and Draco wouldn’t be the one to stop that. Merlin knows it wasn’t a common occurrence. 

Draco was just thinking of putting his pajamas on and going to sleep. Usually, he’s the only one in their room when he changes. But now Potter would be right in the room. Anyone would find it odd that he avoids changing in front of other people, right? Potter would surely find it odd, anyhow. It would become another reason for him to stalk him. Just to make sure he’s not hiding anything nefarious on his skin. 

It was also a defense measure, to make sure Draco wouldn’t have to see Potter’s bare skin either. Draco didn’t have anything to hide. His chest wasn’t even bruised anymore; it was just the scars that remained. Potter wasn’t a stranger to scars. 

He sighed deeply, removing his robes and then his jumper. His back was to Potter. If he could avoid contact, he would. Next came his shirt. There was a strange air of intimacy in the room that made his stomach constrict. What was so different about tonight? The silky-smooth fabric of his pajamas was comforting, and it calmed him down as he moved on to his trousers. Nobody in the past had any qualms about his crotch, because no boy his age would be caught dead staring at another boy’s crotch like that without being afraid of being labeled a creep. Or a poof. 

By the time he’d finished putting his pajamas on, he was simply ready to go to bed. It was an exhausting day and the hot chocolate made him feel sleepier than usual. He just wanted to sleep off the weirdness of the atmosphere. 

“Malfoy.” 

Draco groaned but turned around to look. Potter wasn’t wearing a top. He scowled and focused on his face. “Yes, Potter?” 

He was holding something in his hands, a box. His hands played with the corners of it and kept rolling it around and around. Must be a nervous habit. But he wasn’t saying anything. Draco groaned. 

“Well, get on with it, Potter!” 

Potter flinched and then took two large steps forward. He thrust the hand holding the box out in front of him and Draco got a better look at it. A wand case carved beautifully. Made with the hands of a master, of someone who’s dedicated their entire life to the craft. Shapes were carved into the corner, making it unique. 

He took the wand case from him, eyeing him suspiciously. When he opened it, finally, there was a shock within him that caused him to nearly lose control of the muscles in his hands and drop the box. His wand was laying on the soft, velvet walls of the wand case. _His wand_. 

Ten inches. Hawthorn wood. Unicorn hair core. Reasonably springy. 

His knees felt weak but he refused to allow himself to fall. Draco gently grasped the hilt of the wand and it was a familiar weight in his hand. It sparked a bit near the tip and he gasped. Right. Better not let any accidental magic go in his excitement. 

Once he looked up he was faced with Potter’s face. He was just staring at him, smiling shyly. Like he wasn’t expecting to give him the wand that night either. He was breathing quickly, overwhelmed with emotions. Something in his chest pulled him forward, and before he could really think about it Potter was leaning in as well. Their lips met. 

It was different than when they held hands. But, not different at all. There were similarities in skin, the softness. The unexpected roughness of it being another human being. Draco’s never kissed like this before. He’s only kissed one other person and it was an experimental kiss; Pansy convinced him that it wouldn’t hurt to try. This wasn’t like that. 

Potter jerked a little but didn’t pull away and Draco realized he hadn’t moved an inch since they started. Strong hands met his shoulders. To pull him closer or push him away, Draco didn’t know. Potter was doing something amazing with his mouth and he didn’t want to stop. 

Minutes or maybe hours later, the gravity of the situation, of what was happening, hit Draco. He pulled away, his lips feeling swollen. Kissing a boy was so much different than kissing a girl. More aggressive, confident. No questioning or insecurity about pleasing the girl. Potter opened his eyes and looked at him, really looked at him. 

“Malfoy—”

“Goodnight, Potter. We’ll talk in the morning.” Very quietly, very quickly, Draco walked over to his bed and got in it, pulling the duvet over his head. He kept his wand close to his chest as if it would somehow still his quickly beating heart. 

*

“ _You did what?_ ” 

“Shush!” Harry pressed his hand against Ron’s mouth, looking around them in a paranoid manner as if someone was going to jump out from behind them. Only when he was certain they were alone in the hallway of abandoned classrooms did he remove his hand. “Can you just listen to me?” 

Ron grimaced. He shuddered. “I just can’t imagine wanting to go _near_ the guy, let alone—”

Harry flushed and looked down. “It wasn’t just me. He leaned in too…” He ignored Ron’s gagging noises. “I just don’t understand why he did it in the first place. What’s he trying to get? I had just given him back his wand.” 

“Uh, from the looks of it, he seems to be trying to get in your pants, mate.” 

“Not helpful, Ron.” 

Despite Malfoy’s promise that they would talk about it in the morning, the boy was out of the room by the time he woke up. Seemed to be gone for a while too; even the smell of his posh soap was almost completely faded. Harry had cursed when he realized. The git was as sneaky as a snake when he wanted to be, and there was no doubt in his mind that he’d barely see Malfoy all day. The only time they’d be able to truly talk again was going to be during practice. 

And Madame Hooch would have their heads on pikes if their drama interrupted her practice. 

Ron gave him a sympathetic face. “Sorry, mate. I suppose the real question isn’t why he’s doing it, but why did you do it? Do you want to kiss him again?” 

Did he want to kiss him again? 

There must’ve been an awfully stupid-looking smile on his face because Ron groaned loudly and turned around, ready to leave him alone in the hallway. Harry grabbed his arm to pull him back. 

“Hey!” Harry stood so that they were looking eye-to-eye. Ron was growing to be quite taller than him, Charlie Weasley suggested he’s probably magicking his height. But he was probably just trying to make Harry feel better about his own height or lack thereof. “He’s been avoiding me all day.”

“I could get him for you,” Ron said. “Without his minions around it should be easy to just levitate him around the castle.” 

As amusing as the mental image was, Harry shook his head. “That would just make him hate me more.” 

“Again— don’t think he hates you, mate.” 

Ron didn’t end up levitating a blond, screaming Slytherin through the corridors. Which, to some degree, was a shame. Harry kind of thought he deserved it for breaking his promise from that morning. Malfoy didn’t look at him at all during the two classes they had together, but Harry couldn’t help but look. 

He looked like he didn’t get enough sleep. Dark circles were under his eyes and he was slow in his movements. Now that he was thinking about it, Harry didn’t remember seeing him at breakfast or lunch. And despite the apparent hostility from some of the students, Malfoy didn’t ever refuse to show his face during mealtimes. 

Three times the professor had to shoot a tame charm that zapped him to alertness because he kept on resting his head atop the desk. Each time he flinched harder. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what may have caused the reaction. Harry’s fists clenched underneath the table. 

It wasn’t until the Quidditch practice that they finally met, face to face. Despite them still having three and a half more days to decide who would be seeker, Madame Hooch was getting impatient. She kept glancing at them during practice. Harry thought it was impressive how she was able to coach the other positions while keeping a hawk’s eye on them. By the end of the day, Malfoy evaded his presence and Madame Hooch grabbed his upper arm and pulled him to a secluded spot by the changing rooms. 

“Are you two nearly finished?” She asked. “I need to have my Seekers sorted so we could do some practice games.” 

Harry grinned warmly at her. “Everything’s going great! Just a little bump in the road’s all. We’ll give you your answer soon.” 

She stared at him, testing his honesty, before letting go of his arm. A group of players had already gotten dressed in their school uniform and were leaving for the castle. Ron was waiting near the entrance, but Harry waved him off. He’d be able to catch up later. 

Nobody was in the changing room when he walked in. It was a mess, towels and Quidditch clothes strewn about. Harry found the locker he kept his clothes in and began undressing. There were mirrors that made up two walls in the changing room, which were always a little strange to Harry, but they made up some use now. As he was buttoning up his shirt, a pale hand darted out from under one of the curtains before clenching up into a fist and retreating. 

He gazed intently at the curtain, waiting for some sort of evil creature to slither out and attack him. _It was a hand, though_. Harry finished dressing and waited outside it. Whoever was in there would have to come out eventually, right? He would just wait for them. 

A loud sigh came from behind the fabric. “ _Fuck…_ ” Harry frowned. He could recognize that tone of complaining anywhere. 

“Malfoy?” There wasn’t a response, so he continued, “What are you still doing here?” 

Another loud sigh that turned into a frustrated groan. “Someone… stole my clothes. I usually hide them, but apparently I didn’t hide them well enough.” Neither of them spoke. Should he go get Madame Hooch? But then what good can she do, the clothes are long gone by now. 

Harry flushed, his face feeling like a furnace. “Does that mean you have nothing on right now?” 

The silence was impenetrable until Malfoy muttered, “Well if you’re going to be immature about it…” 

How was he supposed to move on from that? Knowing that Draco Malfoy, his childhood archenemy, was completely nude. That they were separated by a thin piece of fabric hanging from the wall. Harry felt his back sliding down against the cool tile wall until he was sat on the ground, next to the curtain. Unsure of what to do with himself. 

His mind trailed back to that sliver of pale stomach he saw earlier. How far did that paleness stretch? He shook his head sharply. What was he thinking? Even if the person in his fantasies wasn’t someone he’s held so much hostility for in the past, it was still wrong to distract himself with those fantasies instead of trying to help. 

“So…” he started again. “What do you think we should do now?”

*

Draco was cold and uncomfortable. His skin filled with goosebumps as his bare skin made contact with the icy tiled floors. He wasn’t just going to stand up like some sort of lost House Elf. He picked off some dried dirt from his foot and sighed again. 

There was another lapse of silence after Potter asked his last question and Draco had blown up at him. Why would Draco have any idea of what to do in this situation? Did Potter think he made this into a regular occasion? 

Merlin, he should’ve been prepared, though. He knew eventually someone would try to humiliate him like this. He just didn’t expect it to happen from his own teammates. 

(They were smart though and it wasn’t as if he was close with any of them. He couldn’t imagine anyone choosing to go against the grain and just accepting him. Especially because of all the chaos he forced upon them in their seventh year.)

He wondered what Blaise would say if he knew that he was nude in the same room as Potter, all alone. Probably threaten the Gryffindor about treating him right, while joking that Draco is a first-class whore who deserves respect. 

“It’s getting pretty late…” Potter said, as if he was trying to make small talk. Which, Draco thought, would be a terrible idea in their current situation. What could be more unbearable than small talk when one of the speakers was naked? 

He shivered, remembering how cold it got at night during autumn. And there was a draft wafting in from the entrance. 

Potter should just leave. Despite trying not to pity himself too often (he was very lucky for his situation, and he understood that), it was difficult to believe he was worth coming back to Hogwarts. 

“I’m not gonna leave you, Malfoy.” Did he say that out loud? “I don’t know what kind of person you think I am nowadays or why you kissed me, but you won’t be here alone.” Draco didn’t say anything. His chest felt tight. “Maybe I could ask a House Elf to get some extra clothes? Or a blanket to cover you with? I think there are—”

“I don’t deserve what you’re doing for me.” Draco’s body was cold, but the area right underneath his eyes was warm. He wasn’t crying. “You’re the Savior of the Wizarding World and I’m… nothing.” 

“Don’t you think I should make that decision for myself? Whether or not I should be doing something? I am an adult, you know.” 

Draco listened, hands reaching up to run across the neat scars on his chest. He wondered what Potter would say if he saw them. Not daring to look further down than his chest, he idly wondered if Potter would scream and run to tell his friends if he found out exactly who he was talking to. What kind of person he was talking to. Guilt gnawed in Draco’s stomach; he felt like he was dirtying something that was perfect. Potter was so good and Draco didn’t feel that he deserved any piece of that goodness. 

Potter cleared his throat. “Listen, Draco…. There are a few jerseys left. I know this probably greatly offends your sensibilities, but if you can manage the smell of sweat for the fifteen-minute walk back to our room…” 

Merlin, how revolting. He could feel his skin crawl just imagining having to wear some stranger’s sweaty Quidditch clothes. He groaned. While he didn’t want to do that, his other options weren’t that much better. What would his mother say if she learned he was found nude, dead from hypothermia? She’d probably assume the worst had happened to him and blame herself. He couldn’t let that happen. 

“Fine. Slide them under the curtain.” 

And a few moments later, just that happened. Draco slipped the top over his head and suppressed gagging. He ignored the chuckles he heard from the other side of the curtain and put on the shorts. Wearing it made him feel like he needed to be disinfected. At least he didn’t need magical clothing to make his chest flat anymore; he couldn’t imagine having that taken from him and being exposed in that way. 

Hesitantly, he stood to his feet and opened the curtain. Potter was standing a few feet away. He looked handsome and Draco wanted to kiss him again. He’s _been_ wanting to kiss him all day. But that gnawing guilt kept getting in the way. 

Draco tugged on Potter’s shoulder and he turned to him. He shrugged. “Well? I started it last time, I would’ve thought you’d return the favor.” 

Seeming confused at first, Potter laughed again, looking him up and down. “How romantic. I think I prefer you in silk pajamas rather than our teammate’s dirty clothes.” Despite his jokes, Potter leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He was grateful for that— straight kissing on the lips would probably make him run away again. 

Potter wiped his lips. “Merlin, Malfoy! You’re freezing!” 

Draco gasped, genuinely gasped, as Potter gripped his shoulders and pulled him close. He was an inch or two taller than him but was still able to shove his cold nose into Potter’s warm neck, the black hair tickling his forehead. 

“You know that I like you, right?” 

“Well, I’d hope so…” 

“It was supposed to be a relaxing year, but then I saw you with broad shoulders and your jawline, and you just seem…” 

Draco lifted his head to look at him. Now he was curious. Obviously, he was pleased that his private healer’s human transfiguration showed. He’d been previously insecure that it would be too pronounced, but Blaise and Pansy assured him it was a subtle enough change. “Hm?” 

Potter looked at him intensely. “You seem a lot happier. I like how you look when you’re actually happy. You walk with more confidence than when you were that bratty eleven-year-old who thought you were the shit.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Excuse you, I was the shit when I was eleven years old. Everybody loved me!” 

They both knew he was lying, but neither of them said anything. It was pitch black outside with only the lamps of the locker room giving them any source of light or heat. Draco stayed like that, arms tight around Potter, inhaling whatever soap or cologne Potter used so he wouldn’t have to smell the sweat of the uniform. 

Potter’s head shot up, his eyes wide. Before he could even ask, Draco heard it too: growling, the sound of heavy footfalls clear outside of the locker room. His heart hammered in his chest. Fuck, they were stupid for not immediately leaving once Draco was dressed. 

“Let’s go?” He asked, voice embarrassingly squeakier than he would have liked. 

“Yep. Time to go.” 

And with that, Potter grabbed his wrist and pulled him away. They didn’t stop running until they reached their shared dorm room. 

*

Harry collapsed onto his bed while Malfoy dug into his suitcase for clothing to change into. When he found his (presumably) silk pajamas, he went into their bathroom to change. For many long minutes, he waited for him to come out again. Which took longer than he expected. 

He flipped onto his back when he heard the door open again. Malfoy— or should he call him Draco now? Their relationship has changed, hasn’t it? Draco looked more relaxed now that he was out of those nasty clothes. But his face betrayed some of that contentment. 

“Potter… Harry,” Draco breathed, his chest rising quickly. “I’m not wholly who you think I am.” 

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He braced himself for a tragic reveal: he was secretly an animagus, or a vampire, or that he was actually Nagini the snake all along. Harry wouldn’t put it past fate to make the first guy he wanted to be with be some sort of magical creature. What a dilemma. 

“What do you mean, Draco?” He asked gently. 

Draco closed his eyes. “Severus told me the name once when I was in third year. Where my body doesn’t feel right to me.” He opened his eyes, looking like he wanted to hit something, but not looking anywhere near Harry. “I’m transgender.” 

“Oh,” Harry whispered, then wanted to kick himself. He knew somewhere that this was really important and he was racking his brain looking for any memories that could define what that meant. He passively remembered a day when he was about twelve when his Aunt Petunia was scoffing at a news program wherein the person being interviewed had a… sex change, he remembered they said. About a man who turned into a woman. His Uncle Vernon called them a “tranny.” 

Something about the way Draco was glaring at the stone floor beneath them, Harry didn’t think mentioning that would be an appropriate response. He cleared his throat, testing the waters. 

“So, you want me to call you ‘she’, or…” 

“No.” The word cut harshly into his voice. Draco looked up at him and his lips were twisted into a hard, unyielding line. Then it smoothed over a little into something a little more neutral. “No, I would not want that. I was not always treated as male, and the idea of somebody now referring to me by those pronouns makes me feel… upset, to say the least.” 

Harry frowned. “Did your father…?” 

He smiled a little mockingly. “No. The family portrait told my parents before I could. He certainly wasn’t upset about the news.” Draco’s eyes met the floor again. “But, yeah. That’s the truth. I apologize if this ends whatever we started but I’m not apologizing for who I am.” 

The strength in his voice made the butterflies in Harry’s stomach flutter. He smiled a little. “It’s not as if you’ve ever needed my permission for anything,” he said softly, which drew a small exhale of mirth from Draco. “I don’t mind, though. I would still like to be with you if you still want me.” 

Draco didn’t say anything in response to that, but he walked forward and let himself fall face-first next to Harry in the bed. (Which really wasn’t meant to hold two people, or at least in a comfortable way.) He must’ve freshened up in the bathroom because he smelled like that expensive shampoo. He flipped again onto his side so that he could watch him. 

“I can’t help but be relieved, you know.” His words were muffled, barely intelligible. 

“I bet,” Harry whispered. He looked back on all of his memories of Draco. Always flanked by a posse, a spitting image of his father. Wondered how much of that he did because he was transgender. Harry couldn’t lie to himself; he really had no idea what the consisted of. But he was nothing if not determined and he really wanted this…. whatever they had to work out. “It’s getting pretty late.” 

Draco sighed. “We could always skip class.” 

“Never would’ve thought you’d be a bad influence on me, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” 

He knew that Ron and Hermione would give him shit for not updating them on what was happening in his life. They were probably under the assumption that he’d been kidnapped by Nymphs or something due to his absence. But he held Draco in his arms, a concept he’d never be able to imagine a mere two years ago. And Draco was finally warming up. Harry’s world always revolved around Draco Malfoy and he believed it always would. The only thing that should’ve surprised him about the situation was that it hadn’t happened sooner. 

*

Bonus: 

It wasn’t every day your boyfriend (who was previously a childhood enemy) introduced you to his best friends (one of which you once called a derogatory word and the other whose family has been feuding with yours for as long as you could remember). So call Draco a pessimist. He and Harry hadn’t even agreed on when to come out about their relationship. Draco thought they should wait until Harry had at least properly courted him in full Pureblood tradition and, while Harry did promise to court him somewhat, Harry wanted his best friends to be the first to know. He also admitted to feeling guilty about them not knowing. 

Which Draco could understand. Blaise and Pansy still didn’t know, but he could never lie to his mother. Even if he didn’t hint about any changes in his relationship she just _knows_. Sends him chocolates with little notes about “sharing with a loved one” or “giving to someone special.” Very subtle, mother. 

So he gave in. And Harry set up a time where they could meet each other without it being too awkward. Which, they decided, would be a group study session. They would come out and hopefully, everyone would be too busy with homework to chase him out of the library. 

Madam Pince surely wouldn’t allow that to happen, at least.

He arrived at an empty table in the far back of the library, where hardly anybody was around. He didn’t want to pick a completely desolate area, in case he needed a witness to speak on his behalf if anything went wrong. Draco set up his books and parchment paper and started writing. 

So immersed in his work after a short amount of time, he jumped when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. When he looked up, he was met with Harry’s dazzling smile. It wasn’t an expression seen often in the press; usually, he was far too irritated with the harassment to be happy, even fake-happy. 

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger were trailing behind him. Granger had a stretched smile across her face, obviously a polite smile. Draco has had experience with those. Her frizzy hair was large and voluminous and Draco wondered if it would be wrong to offer Wizarding hair products to her. He didn’t know if she would appreciate it or not. 

Weasley didn’t seem too put-off by his presence, which was a change he wasn’t expecting. Harry sat down beside him, but those two sat across from them. Granger mimicked his set up and got into her work quickly, as expected. She would be the brightest witch of her age if she didn’t study. Weasley was staring at him, though he didn’t look particularly judgemental. 

“So, you want to get with Harry, eh?” 

Draco coughed and stared down at his work. Harry rolled his eyes and countered, “We’re already together, Ron. I appreciate what you’re trying to do though.” 

Weasley huffed but didn’t say anything more. Although it was supposed to be a study session, Draco and Granger did a majority of any actual studying. Weasley pulled out a stack of Self-Shuffling playing cards, let them do their thing, and then started a game with Harry. 

After about thirty minutes of this, their game ended and they finally began studying altogether. Weasley grinned at his girlfriend and slid his essay over to her, asking her pleasantly to look over it for any errors. She narrowed her eyes but took it with a sigh. 

Harry’s hand crept toward his, under the table, and grabbed it. His hand was warm. It always was and Harry couldn’t explain it. Not that it really needed explaining; Draco’s hands and feet were always cold so it was a nice change of pace. But holding hands in a public space, even if it was underneath a table, was a little embarrassing. He felt himself flushing, thankful that it wouldn’t show that much on his fair skin. 

Of course, _of course_ , Granger noticed. He met eyes with her and she smiled a little at him. Merlin, don’t tell him he was getting soft with the Gryffindors? The hostility, he hoped, was dying out but he didn’t know what to do with himself he felt entirely guilty about being even the slightest bit snarky with them. 

And he knew they didn’t mind that their best friend was dating a boy. If they did, they would have made it plenty clear by now. But Draco couldn’t help but wonder if they were surprised that he liked guys as well. He wondered how they would react if they knew he was transgender, not that he ever planned on telling them; it just wasn’t necessary information. They didn’t need to know anything about his bits, so to speak. 

Now he felt weird about looking at Granger, after thinking about Harry’s friends knowing what his bits looked at. He looked back down at his essay for Arithmancy and tightened his hold on his boyfriend’s hand. There were eyes looking over his essay before he heard a soft gasp. 

“You take Arithmancy too?” Granger asked, leaning over the table to check out his essay. Weasley groaned as she handed his half-proofread essay back to him to deal with. 

“Yes,” he answered, still wary about saying the wrong thing to her. For Harry’s sake, he wanted his friends to like him, believe it or not. “My father wanted me to take Divination, but I never liked how touchy-feely it was. Besides, Bridget Wenlock got me interested in it. I read about her in my mother’s copy of _Awe-Inspiring Witches to Know Before You Die_.”

Granger looked ecstatic. “I’ve never heard of that book.” 

“I believe it’s out of print by now.” 

She suddenly looked hesitant. Her bottom lip disappeared between her front teeth, and she only released it to ask, “Would you mind terribly asking your mother if I could borrow that book? Not many textbooks mention the discoveries made by witches. A lot of them are focused on concepts discovered by wizards only.” 

Draco could understand that. His stomach felt warm knowing he was getting along with Granger. He never thought she’d be able to forgive him, but he was happy they could civilly talk about something, even if it was school-related. “Sure. I’m sure she’d love to lend it to you.” 

Weasley gave him a wide grin and nodded slightly. Being Granger’s boyfriend, he’s probably the most aware out of any of them how much she values her books. 

Harry laughed a little and tilted his head until it was lying on Draco’s shoulder. He nuzzled slightly into his neck. Draco heard Weasley fake-gagging and Granger chastize him quietly. But it was as if they weren’t even there. All he could focus on was the warmth and feeling of having someone close to him. Never did he think he’d be able to date anyone, let alone Harry Potter, who would see him as a man and still want to be with him. 

And now he had exactly that. Some days were harder than others. But on those days Harry would run his hands over the Human Transfiguration scars on his chest and mutter about how nice they were healing and how manly and badass they looked. It was hard to feel sad when he had that support. 

Draco closed his eyes and finally let himself relax, comforted by the very quiet playful arguing of Granger and Weasley as well as the wonderful pressure of his boyfriend’s head on his shoulder and his hand tightly gripping his. 


End file.
